


Mab's Tree

by Erulisse



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23613487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erulisse/pseuds/Erulisse
Summary: In these days of Pandemic, it occurred to me that Tolkien mentioned a Great Plague in The Silmarillion. In those early days, men and hobbits were most impacted by the illness, decimated in some areas. I wanted to write a short story about those times to bring hope to those of us living through our own "Great Plague".
Kudos: 5





	Mab's Tree

Mab's Tree

She was known as Mab. It was a certainty that her name had been far more than a single breath. Indeed, if rumors were to be believed, she had been a great beauty in the days of her youth. But those days were far behind her and on this day, as she fought the crank of the bucket, drawing cold water from the well, those days seemed centuries in the past.

This was the fourth hole she had been visited - the tears and entreaties of the other inhabitants of the small settlement having pulled her away from her own cozy bed and into the chill of the pre-dawn hours. The fever had hit hard, with almost every family affected. As the healer of the vale, she was in demand, despite the fact that her own sleep had been scant and spotty at best.

In truth, there was little she could do. The sickness had passed up from the South, hitting all races, save perhaps the dwarves and elves. "But, o' course, there's no tellin' if the tales of such beings even be true," she muttered to herself as she unhooked the bucket, wrapping a cloth around the metal handle to protect her hand from the added chill. "Mab," she chided, "you ha' no time for stuff 'n such nonsense."

As she entered the hole, the rank smell of the sickness assailed her once again. She had wrapped her head well, cloth across her nose and mouth, yet this was the fourth family she had visited this morning and the sun hadn't reached its zenith yet. There were many holes she had yet to visit.

She clamped down on a sigh. Such sounds would inspire none to bravery, stiffen no spines, comfort no fears. She knew the only thing to pull her friends and neighbors from this miasma would be faith and hope. It was not her job to tamp those feelings down. Such actions would only allow despair to enter through the broken shards.

She heated water and added herbs from her ever dwindling supply, making sure each one in the small family drank of the tisane after it was heated. After all had the hot tea and she had straightened their beds, she banked the fires and left, promising to return that evening. As she closed the door gently behind her, she wondered if any of them would be alive when she returned that night. Setting her sights for the next hole, she began walking, leaning on her thick staff.

In the days and years to come, the sickness was renamed by those in power and became what is now known as the Great Plague. By the time nearby hobbits checked on the small settlement in the vale, four of every five holes had been abandoned. The small graveyard, in the nearby grove, had grown large and now held the memories, history, and tears of hobbits of all ages. In the center of the cemetery was a tree which grew strong and tall. 'Mab's Tree' they called it, honoring the one who had given everything she had, including her life, to save her fellow Hobbits. Her name may have been short, but the memories of Hobbits were long, and for many years and in fireside tales she was remembered and celebrated.


End file.
